F U C K E D  U P  C O L L E G E  K I D S
       -------------------------------------------------------
               - t h e  p o e t r y  v e n t u r e -
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       There are so many forms of expression, and this is Poetry's
       Venture. Venturing through the glimpses of the mind, heart,
       or spirit of the one that is writing, only to show a glimmer
       of something, or someone.  Ways to express the things that
       may be oridinary that they see through an unordinary prespective,
       or maybe it's just the reality?  A venture through a glimpse that
       is a glimmer of something, or someone ... to expand the vast
       plain that we find a place to call our own - the Venture
       of Poetry.

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       Linda...

       Linda, lovely lady
       with long dark braids
       and flashing eyes.

       Working for a question mark
       in a grimy little dive,
       pushing beer and hugging
       drunks and wondering...

       Wondering why the one she
       loves doesn't and what happened
       in the years just past to change
       the place she thought
       she knew.

       And other thoughts exist there too..

       Lovely Linda, old at 30 and
       getting older. Feeling
       helpless in a life
       of lifelessness
       and seeking death
       to find her life.

       Nights upon the bar room
       floor when the moon is
       dark and the beer moves
       quickly.

       And Linda thinks back
       to last week or sometimes
       when its really bad to late
       last year when life was calm
       and pouring beer was just a way
       to make a buck.

       But now the drunks have said
       too much and stayed too long
       and anyway, there ain't nothing
       much worth going home for anyway
       so why not stay open just a bit longer
       and listen just a while more.

       And who knows, one night it might
       come true and a prince will
       claim her for his own.

       But the evening passes and
       the beer stops flowing and
       soon its time to call last call
       and see just who has stayed.

       Lovely Linda, seeking life
       and love and finding pain.
       She of the multitude and
       yet alone.

       FTF



       Untitled and Unfinished

       The echo of a thousand voices
       Thunders in our heads
       As the melodies there engendered
       Whispers of the fathomless mystery of the soul,
       Piercing us with these same passions
       That characterize our essence.
       We are the instruments.  Our souls,
       The symphony of our desire.
       Like petals on the summer breeze,
       By this desperate cry we are animated,
       A marionette on astral strings
       As the bright moon wanes.
       Slipping into the darkling distance,
       It crystallizes into a single plaintive song
       Dimly wailing its message:
       We will die soon, you and I,
       And join the voices on the other side.

       Screamin' Lord Byron



       the silk black finger caressed the mesh of gold.
       the silver lining seemed far too green too far away.
       this blue night casts a red shadow on your brown door frame.
       and the woodwork finished with a tin of lead came from the yellow man
       sitting on top of the purple haze.
       never again will i buy such orange flavors from a man with only one
       tan hand.
       never again will the white streaming milk flow around his pink
       insides.

       rage



       an example of a bad poem

       would be that one by robert frost
       about the boys swinging
       on birch trees the one
       that is so long

       i know that it is supposed to evoke
       EMOTION and that i am supposed to
       LEARN something from it but instead i am

       sitting here with a mug of
       luke-warm chocolate
       writing this
       anticipating the new wrestling show tonight
       picking my nose
       hoping my package from that gaming store
       arrives in the mail today
       and not thinking much of anything else
       except that robert frost
       sucks the methane clear out of my
       fucking rectum
       which is maybe enough emotion
       and learning from one poem that
       i can take

       mr. frost has finally done
       something right for a change
       and he didn't
       even
       mean it

       styx                    [email protected]



       No Particular Order

       unknown likeness in the distance
       mutual spirit close to heart
       never ending friendly surprise
       daily routine repressed the spark

       curiosity, maybe even destiny?
       always meant to be, in one form or another
       one with true concern
       silently provoking, such a tease

       never met, already known
       content with eternal comfort
       to find the solace of you
       kindred hate if nothing else

       four. that mean something to me.

       dis


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       (c) Copyright. All poems copyright by original author.
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       F O U N D E D:                         October 30, 1997